Sleep addressed me familiarly, callingShe takes a third of our lives and when
we come back this way a second time..............doesn’t recognize ustraipses to the curtains to let.............in the broken glass light of clouds....................CLOSED.......read the sign on the dream shop door.......the battered mouse....... a grey dust ball.....................................about two days deadroared about lost innocence............to a loose sock........on the closet floor.........ripped anew....................out of the upside...............................down canoe....................................(sleep’s protection)

Our charming felines down through the several decades, though (perhaps too) well fed, have maintained a remarkable instinctive interest in the form of "play" that involves the simulation of "prey", as many a wee tim'rous beastie has learned the hard way. This poem memorializes one such mock hunt by discovering the sad aftermath.

Steve, the broken glass light of dawn clouds is sending down shards of rain here again this morning. No birds peep. Morning downhill commuters throb into the mist oblivious.